To Meet the Black Crow
by Grym
Summary: When Hermione accepts an invitation to study Alchemy at Hogwarts in the summer, she finds herself entangled in much larger affairs, including Professor Snape's painful and dangerous return to Voldemort. PostGoF SnapeHermione mentorship. [WIP, on hiatus]
1. Prologue: Descent

A/N: Many thanks to Kamots, the husband who consents to suffer through my fanfiction, and to Sophrani, friend and beta who takes time away from her own tales to poke about in mine. All recognizable characters are part of J.K.Rowling's genius and are borrowed with respect and affection. Feedback – both praise and critique – welcomed! This is my first full-length fic in the Potterverse and it looks like quite a long but magical road ahead.

This takes place immediately after _Goblet of Fire_, and although it will not follow canon after Book 4, it may contain minor elements (spells, creatures, etc..) from all 7 Books eventually.

* * *

**To Meet the Black Crow**

_"We have to a great extent lost the sense that still lived in the medieval and renaissance alchemists, that this darkness contained all possibilities. Like children we fear the dark, and for twentieth century humanity, darkness often holds only an existential dread . . . In alchemy, to meet with the black crow is a good omen." – Adam McLean, "Animal Symbolism in the Alchemical Tradition"_

PROLOGUE: DESCENT

"You were seen."

The low, sardonic voice had no effect on the room's single occupant. Sprawled luxuriously in an armchair by the fireplace, Lucius Malfoy lifted a glass of blood-dark wine to his eyes and gave the crystal stem the briefest delicate twist. His gaze followed the heavy red liquid as it swirled within the glass, ignoring the visitor who leaned in the doorway. After a long moment, he touched the glass to his lips to sample its contents musingly. "And you were not," he replied. "Why is that, Severus?"

Severus Snape stalked into the room, pushing long, rain-drenched hair back from his sallow face. "Do I answer to you now, Lucius?" The words held only a quick hint of anger. He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it over tone of the wingback chairs before the fire. The quality black wool glittered with damp, dripping noiselessly onto the lacquered hardwood floor. Snape muttered a quick drying charm, the tip of his wand briefly visible in his hand before it vanished up his sleeve again. He stared down at the other man for a moment and the corner of his mouth turned upward in a grim ghost of a smile. "You know where I was, in any case. The Potter brat had vanished and all bloody hell broke loose at the tournament. Where else would I be but corralling dunderheaded teenagers and feigning ignorance to the old man himself?"

"Answering the summons of your Lord, perhaps." Lucius watched him now. His long silver-blond hair and the rich green of his dressing gown glowed in the firelight, patches of brilliance and color that only accentuated the cruel shadows around his eyes and mouth, and splashed against the darkness of the enormous library. He sipped his wine again, making no gesture toward the other chair for his guest. "It was not a gathering to be missed, old friend." The affectionate appellation failed to mask the underlying sarcasm. "He was not pleased."

Snape snorted, his lip curling derisively. "You're not nearly so narrow-minded as that, Lucius. And I'm not so careless as to ignore a summons unless it means losing my valuable position at the High Table of Hogwarts." He, too, placed an ambiguous stress on the word 'valuable,' twisting it with measures of pride and distaste. With a small sigh, he pressed the bridge of his nose with two fingers and narrowed his eyes against an encroaching headache before continuing to speak, settling uninvited onto the arm of the second chair. "But that crowd of morons who had the honor of seeing our Lord's return was careless indeed. Potter escaped and of course he named names. Yours. Others." As he spoke, Snape schooled his face into a mask of indifference touched with the faintest hint of personal concern for the man across from him, a man with whom he once attended school, whom he once might have called a distant friend. The man who had eagerly pointed him down the dark path to Voldemort's Inner Circle so many years ago.

Snape let the silence stretch between them with studied nonchalance. His stomach churned less with disgust at the dangerous charade and more at the natural ease with which he fell once again into the performance. After thirteen years, he reasoned, it should be harder. Even with most of the past year to prepare, as the brand on the inside of his left forearm had stung and burned, a portent of Voldemort's imminent return, this act should have felt vaguely foreign. It sickened him that his body knew the motions so well, that his mind and his tongue should betray him with the perfect ease with which they slipped into the habitual role of Snape the Death Eater.

Feeling Malfoy's eyes searching his face, he stilled an involuntary shiver by concentrating on the warm play of firelight. This was madness, he knew. Lucius was dangerous but simple enough to bluff; he had done it time and time again. But it had been thirteen years since he'd faced Voldemort in person. Thirteen years since his mind had been rifled by one of the wizarding world's most talented Legilimens, since his body had been wracked and broken by friendly tortures, since his hands had dripped the figurative and literal blood of innocents. He could feel the bile roil at the base of his throat and wrestled with his revulsion and fear, working to bring them rigidly under control while his audience was comprised only of the elder Malfoy.

Dumbledore's voice, cool and concerned, flitted through his thoughts. "If you are ready …if you are prepared." There was no way to prepare for a return to utter darkness. The clutch of guilt, the lingering stain of cruelty, had remained even during years of seeming peace. But the calculating, savoring darkness of the Dark Lord ran deeper still, violating the soul and scarring the mind. No. There was no way to be ready. There was only need—the desperation of an old wizard and of the others who relied on him to survive within the viper's nest. The need for information and for absolution in equal parts, equally tenuous and perhaps, in the end, impossible.

He pushed Dumbledore, the Order, the faces of the colleagues and the children who depended on his cunning, to the back of his mind and, with the twist of a sneer on his lips, Severus Snape allowed himself to plummet deeper into darkness.

Malfoy was speaking again. "You're a fool to come here, Severus."

"And where else should I go, Lucius? I need to see him."

"Why would he be here?"

"Why would he be elsewhere? Your dungeons are unplottable, unless my memory deceives me. Which is unlikely. And it's not as if Fudge will come banging on your door, is it? Is it you who controls his Imperius, or someone else? I rather doubt Macnair ever actually learned anything of subtlety." He sniffed disdainfully. "Even if Potter exaggerated about his supposed duel, I imagine our Lord needs somewhere secure to recover after such a dramatic resurrection. Particularly since he allowed that cretin Gryffindor to oversee the process."

A faint skittering along the flagstone of the hearth resolved itself suddenly into a genuine anomaly in the rich, baroque setting of the Malfoy library – a single grey rat, its patchy, moth-eaten pelt stretched over its bones. The creature scrabbled onto its hind paws, chittering madly for a moment and Snape could see the tell-tale glint of its metallic silver forepaw in the fire's glow.

Snape smirked. "Pettigrew. As articulate as ever, I see."

With a soft implosion of air, the rat transformed into a small, narrow-faced man who waved his hands impotently and shook with indignant splutters. He clenched his magical fist, a gift from the Dark Lord for services rendered, anger reddening the pock-marked face between its patchwork of badly-shorn whiskers. "You should watch yourself, traitor. The Dark Lord will put you in your place, he will," he sputtered, stepping down from the hearth to meet Snape's languid gaze. "You're a marked man."

Swallowing his sudden chill at Pettigrew's words, Snape channeled fear into the quiet aggression that came so easily again, slaking his words with disgust. "And you're suddenly a _potions master_, I hear," he replied, eyes narrowing dangerously. He leaned forward, his expression contorted as if he confronted a particularly unsavory stench. "You, who spent the last decade hiding in Weasley's sock drawer, uselessly wallowing in your own filth."

"Shut up!" The rodent animagus trembled with fury. "You didn't find him! You didn't help him! You should've come but you didn't." A slow, malicious grin spread across his face, his oversized teeth gleaming wetly in the dim light. "And now, he knows all about you. Crawling after your new mentor, eh? Toadying to Dumbledore as soon as my Master fell!"

Snape's fingers buried themselves in the front of Pettigrew's robes, twisting and choking with a small gesture. "Have a care, Wormtail," he seethed, venomously biting out the name and glaring into the vile little face as it began to giggle.

"You –" Pettigrew sucked in air and giggled again. "You wouldn't have given him what I gave him!"

The potions master's grip tightened. "Of course not, you bloody idiot. And he would not have asked it of me. My role to him has always been more subtle than such stupidity." He allowed himself a thin smile in return, the expression unnatural on his well-lined face. "He's marked you for the slaughter with that trinket you're calling a hand now. The first time Aurors run across your path—"

Concentrating on baiting the smaller Death Eater, Snape almost failed to see the sudden flash of silver cut across the red-gold of the fireplace. Even with a split second's forewarning, he found he could not avoid the blow as Pettigrew's living metal fist slammed into his jaw. The coppery taste of blood spilled into his mouth as he staggered, only keeping his feet when the wingchair behind him pressed into his back. He growled, shaking his head, feeling at least one lower tooth loosen. _At least he missed the nose_, he found himself thinking incongruously._ It's crooked enough already._

From the other chair, Lucius chuckled. "You know, Severus, I rather hope the Dark Lord doesn't kill you."

Snape licked at the blood pooling in the corner of his mouth and glared.

Malfoy returned his empty wineglass to a small side table and rose, brushing at non-existent flecks of dust on his immaculate green robes. He stepped across the hearthrug and slid one hand through Snape's arm in a parody of affection, his fingers hard and cool despite the warmth of the fire. Snape flinched at the contact, but before he could pull away, Pettigrew closed in on his other side, still giggling raggedly to himself.

Without warning, the Dark Mark on his inner arm flared into exquisite pain. Burning with a bone-charring heat that seemed to wind sinuously up his arm and around his neck, it seared as it had not in the long years since Voldemort's fall, staggering him. Dimly, Snape knew the two wizards had dragged him up between them, and felt the short, nauseating rush of forced apparition before he fell into impenetrable blackness.

They released him immediately, his knees thudding against stone as he stumbled forward, clutching his arm to his chest. Unrelieved black air wrapped around him like a shroud, pressing against his open eyes in an almost tangible fashion, close and suffocating. With effort, Snape directed his attention outward through the stifling shadows, pushing the Mark's pain into a manageable throb that served to clarify rather than muddle his thoughts. The air was warm, fetid, smelling strongly of earth and ozone. Rain thrummed against his face and hands, soaking his robes almost immediately, plastering his long hair in rivulets across his face.

_Outside, then. Not the Malfoy dungeons, after all_, he thought. The ground beneath him felt sporadically level, like paving stones. _Perhaps a courtyard. Or a ruin_. The arcane dark seemed to muffle sounds, but a few crept through to him as if from a great distance – Pettigrew's labored breathing, the scuff of dirt beneath boots, the rhythmic whisper of his own fingers gripping the cloth of his sleeve in a mindless attempt to soothe the burning black mark. Focusing on these sounds, staring down the darkness, Snape set his jaw firmly against the low groan of pain and fear that threatened to rise unbidden in his throat, and cautiously rose to his feet.

An achingly familiar voice breathed in the darkness, simple and emotionless. "_Crucio_."

In an instant, the pain of the Dark Mark vanished, subsumed as every nerve in his body ignited. White-hot blades screamed through his veins, bones seeming to blister and rip from muscle and tendon, skin alight with invisible electricity. Unlike the slow, creeping burn of the Mark, this mindless conflagration of pain blotted out thought and routed self-control. Distantly, Snape was aware that he had fallen again, fingers clutching the ground wildly, tearing on the rough edges of the slick stones. His body twisted and writhed, mouth open in a breathless shriek, heart straining to burst and every sense in him clawing toward an oblivion that refused to come. Despite a history of frequent subjection to the Cruciatus Curse, the intense pain was always blindingly fresh. Unlike so many other horrible things in life, no one ever became inured to this.

Thought slammed back to him, splitting his skull as the curse released. Snape lay panting on ground for a long moment, twitching uncontrollably as the secondary tremors wracked him, groaning but almost savoring these quieter aftershocks. When he could again feel the lukewarm rainwater trickling down one side of his face and the grit of stone cutting the other, he slowly pushed himself to his hands and knees and lifted his head to scour the darkness. "Master," he gasped, normally silken voice cracking. He crawled forward, hesitant, hoping he moved toward the hidden figure.

"Ah, Severus." The sibilant whisper coiled through the darkness, seemingly without source, echoing softly.

_A courtyard, then_, Snape thought mechanically.

The voice continued, inexplicably gentle. "My once loyal lieutenant, my brilliant potions master, my prodigal son come home to die." Almost affectionate, the words caressed and teased, reminding and promising, soothing and threatening. "I had thought you to have left my service forever, child. And yet, penitent, you seek me tonight, groveling on this hallowed ground." A low exhalation, a grim sigh perhaps, touched with the faintest breath of a hiss. "Do you come to me of your own volition, I ask myself? Or does some other command you now?"

Blank red eyes flared in the darkness and Snape hesitated only as long as might be respectful, staring up into the faceless, terrible eyes. "Master," he grated again, licking his lips and swallowing to relieve his parched throat. "I came as I could."

"But it is_ why_ you came that intrigues me, my evasive Severus." The voice continued, slow and thoughtful, lingering over each phrase as though over a lover's body. "Do you come as did Wormtail, dreaming to stand in the shadow of greatness? No? Then perhaps like Nott and Avery, simpering of love and respect but reeking of terror? Or perhaps your tastes these days run more to those of Lucius, licking at the hand that offers blood and secret corporeal delights?"

Snape thought he heard Malfoy make a small noise of protest at the description, but it was stifled quickly.

He shook his head, inching forward painfully toward where the Dark Lord loomed above him, abject, drinking his own humiliation like wine. "As always, Lord," he responded humbly, "I come for knowledge and the freedom to wield it without restraint. You promise power. To that, as to you, I remain willingly sworn and bound, however long the years." Silently, he hoped the Dark Lord still thrilled to the old arrogance and the promise of submission, of leashed and tractable skill. _Deadly half-truths_, he thought in passing as he offered the litany; Voldemort would expect a measure of rehearsal from his potions master. "I still serve the stronger side, the one that best provides for the pursuit of my craft. I am yours, as before. I have not changed."

Mirthless laughter cut through the air above him. "So sure, Severus? Such pride."

Snape's bleeding fingertips brushed against rough velvet robes in the darkness and, lifting the cloth, he bowed his head to press his lips to it with fervor. "It has served me well in your service before now, dread Lord," he murmured, forcing himself to savor the damp scent of decay that rose from the fabric. He inhaled deeply, lingeringly, worshiping at the hem of the Dark Lord's robe.

"Enough." Voldemort stepped away, turning from where Snape huddled and twitching his garments out of reach. The potions master closed his eyes briefly, grateful for even a momentary respite. "Look at me, Severus."

Snape stilled, but raised his gaze obediently. For one dizzying moment, the world narrowed to the unnatural gleam of crimson eyes. The sensation of skeletal fingers probed his mind, skittering spider-like over his memories, searching for loose edges around the shields he so diligently maintained. Voldemort made no attempt at subtlety as he applied his wordless, wandless magic to its task, but deepened the search forcefully, pressing with an almost physical touch. Cautious and controlled, Snape filtered fragments of memory toward that intrusive presence – a burst of temper in the potions classroom directed at an angry red-haired boy, a trusting glance offered by a man with an enormous white beard and twinkling blue eyes, his own sense of manipulative eagerness in the face of such trust, memories real and staged in reality, forced into experience in order to be relayed in trickles to the Dark Lord. The skill had taken Snape years of practice and rigid discipline; if he could have allowed a stray thought, he would have prayed to gods in whom he never believed that his talent had not deteriorated in the intervening years of peace.

"You are a liar, Severus Snape," Voldemort said softly after several long minutes, a flicker of his glance severing the contact. "But an exceptional one. _Finite Incantatem_."

The magical darkness cleared to be replaced with the sodden grey darkness of evening. A massive stone-framed courtyard appeared as if through fog, moss-encrusted columns, a gaudy sculpture that had once served as a fountain, glassless arched windows that looked out into dense, shadowed forest. _Malfoy Estate? Unlikely. Perhaps anywhere_, Snape noted idly, resisting the urge to rest his forehead weakly against the ground and instead seeking the figure of Voldemort.

The man – the creature, Snape's mind intoned – stood several feet away, wrapped in soot-black robes that hung unnaturally still despite the soft drizzle of rain and the wind that gusted around them in fits. Within the depths of the hooded robe, the flesh of his inhuman face and hands was thin, drawn like overstretched parchment and the grey-white color of long-exposed bone. His lipless mouth was set in a line, flat nose barely detailed by nostrils. His steady gaze burned, slit-pupiled and alien, untouched by mercy or pity. Long, thin fingers twined with each other, held lightly before him, flexing with a terrible readiness. At his feet, a massive serpent coiled and recoiled itself, its unblinking eyes fixed on him, its tongue tasting the air. It shifted its huge coils slowly, scale rasping on scale in a dull, halting hiss.

"You – you said you would kill him," Pettigrew squeaked, shuffling from foot to foot behind Voldemort. The fingers of his silver hand hovered at his mouth and he nibbled at the metal nervously between statements. "Why don't you kill him, Master? Kill him for us, for your loyal servants. Make an example--"

"Peace, Wormtail." Voldemort's quiet voice cracked across the empty courtyard like a whip and the animagus quailed, sinking to his knees with a visible shudder. "I have already gifted you for your part in my re-embodiment. Now, be silent and understand that this man's loyalty is not for you to critique."

Pettigrew whimpered. "Of course not, Master. But –"

The dark wizard made a small gesture, too quick to see as it patterned the air, and Pettigrew's eyes bulged suddenly. The little man choked, spluttering without sound. "I have tolerated your whining, Wormtail, but now you try my patience."

Snape watched with a mixture of wariness and surprise as Voldemort lectured his minions. "It suits us to keep a wolf among the lambs, to house a traitor at Albus Dumbledore's very elbow." A venomous hiss accompanied the name. Snape was unsure whether it rose from the man speaking or the snake at his feet. "Such a Death Eater must be a man of circumspection, with a talent for keeping his thoughts to himself, capable of calculating each expression and decision. He cannot always jump when bidden. Indeed, it might be wiser for him to risk his Master's wrath and not abandon so useful a position." The infernal gaze bored into his and Snape could once again feel the cold fingers of the Legilimens spell groping about in his mind. "Nevertheless, I expect my Inner Circle to come when I call. If the Muggle-loving old fool is wrapped around your finger, Severus, surely you could have made your excuses."

Snape bit down on a sudden wild desire to apologize and, after a moment of silence, Voldemort continued. "Still, your place has been a useful one. Traitor among the ranks of the ignorant, maintaining even during the long years of my absence. Playing your role by denying yourself my company on that most important of evenings. Watching, instead, for the significant reactions of my enemies." Another thoughtful pause. "Tell me, Severus, have I divined your intended supplication?"

Feeling exposed as the Dark Lord listed his carefully prepared excuses as if plucking them from his mind, Snape searched desperately for something else to add, some reason for mercy that was not already weighed and measured. _You did not return for mercy. Move on._"You have, my Lord."

Voldemort glared down at him, a darkly cowled incarnation of Fate itself. "Do you think me a fool, Severus?"

"Never, my Lord."

"Tell me how I am to believe you, then," continued the cold, hard voice, "when you come bearing the only explanation that might stay my hand from killing you outright? Such perfect reasoning, precise, sterile, untouched by the chaos of the everyday. Almost … too perfect. You should speak, Severus, while you still have your tongue and a mind to wag it."

"Master, you know my mind and my motives." Snape lifted his eyes in a calculated balance of restrained confidence and deep-seated humility, carefully subduing the quaver in his voice. "And what is more, you know my uses."

The lipless mouth curled in a grimace of black humor. "It is not your usefulness that I question, but your loyalty and your desire for forgiveness."

Snape restrained the impulse to throw himself on the wet ground and grovel hopelessly. "Forgiveness is for lesser men. Loyalty can be proven. I am willing to earn my place as I did in the past."

"Proud as ever, Severus." The Dark Lord glided closer, leaving his monstrous serpent swaying and coiling behind him. "A reasonable stance since you well know that I do not forgive. As I told your brethren, who likewise abandoned me all those years, I also do not forget. I expect thirteen years worth of repayment from them for such callous neglect of duty. From you, sweet Severus, I think I will need more. Much more if you are to indeed earn your place."

"You will have it, my Lord."

Snape closed his eyes as one emaciated, white hand reached for him, sliding through the rain-damp hair that fell across Snape's forehead, tracing down the side of his face, cupping his jaw in a parody of a caress. One icy finger rubbed over the crusted blood at the corner of his mouth. "I will, indeed, my treacherous Death Eater. So, tell me, what have you to share after thirteen years of such _loyal_ servitude?" Mocking.

The potions master began a matter-of-fact recital, well-rehearsed in the long days leading up to this moment, a litany of details about Hogwarts and its population. "Dumbledore knows you have returned, as you will have guessed. The Potter brat saw to that." Snape twisted Potter's name with the ease of familiar loathing. "You can be certain he will recall the Order, but they are scattered and distracted, and will be forced underground by Fudge and the Ministry's avid denial. They will be ill-prepared, lost, out of touch." He and the headmaster had carefully chosen kernels of useful truth to sacrifice for the rebuilding of Voldemort's trust, and Snape embellished with both useless fact and promised fictions. After several uninterrupted minutes, he finished with the most recent events. "The old man will invite a handful of students to the castle over the summer, know-it-all types who want a leg up for their OWLs or NEWTS, no doubt. They arrive in a few weeks."

"Are they of any use to us?" Lucius' voice rose from across the courtyard, tainted with an unholy eagerness. _What you mean is can I deliver them for your amusement_, Snape thought grimly, all too aware that Voldemort's tenuous pardon might be bolstered by the blood of children.

"They will be closely guarded, as always," he hedged, his tone dispassionate, "and, as you know, the wards remain in full force. I cannot touch them within the castle grounds and they will be forbidden to leave unaccompanied."

Malfoy snorted. "You're a teacher. You can arrange to accompany them."

Snape cut his eyes over to the other man and allowed his normally unreadable expression to subside into a condescending chuckle. "I thought you knew me, Lucius. Even Draco will tell you that I do not 'accompany' students anywhere. I rather cultivate a presence that keeps the little bastards far away, save a handful of the more promising Slytherin purebloods."

Lucius smirked in response. "Draco does tell stories."

The Dark Lord silenced them with a slight gesture and stood silent for some time, his serpentine face swaying slightly in the shadows of his hood, his emotionless gaze raking over Snape. "Worth the risk, perhaps," he whispered, finally. "You will come to our next gathering, Severus, and provide us with both the information you claim access to and, I think, some entertainment. While Lucius will undoubtedly hope for something young and sweet, I will express my own wish that you simply bring yourself. It will be enough for now."

A fist seemed to close in Snape's stomach, twisting as he had twisted Pettigrew's robes earlier. He felt distinctly sick. "Willingly, my Lord. Thank you for your leniency."

Voldemort began to laugh, a raspy noise like snake scales sliding over stone. "You will not disappoint me, Severus?"

"No, my Lord."

"Of course not." Still laughing softly, he lifted his wand and waited, relishing Snape's inadvertent flinch. "_Crucio_."

As always, the pain was unimaginable.

---------------------

Hours later, Snape found himself immersed in the padded depths of one of Dumbledore's best conjured armchairs, soaking in the warmth of a roaring fire but still shivering. His old trick of folding his trembling hands into the sleeves of his robe to mask the aftereffects of the Cruciatus seemed rusty and somehow inadequate beneath the headmaster's clear blue gaze. Snape slumped further into the chair and shook his head to ward off the gentle offer of a tea cup. _I couldn't hold onto it, Albus. You don't want to know that_.

Undeterred, Dumbledore leaned closer and, asking permission with a slight incline of his eyebrows, turned Snape's face toward him with the lightest touch beneath his chin. "I wish you would let me call Poppy," the headmaster murmured, peering over the top of his half-moon spectacles, his normally twinkling eyes as serious as storm clouds. "You're still bleeding, child." He pushed a lock of hair out of the dark, haunted eyes with one hand.

Snape pulled away slightly, not wishing to give offense but shuddering at the memory of another hand sliding over his face. "Stop being a mother hen, Albus. I'm fine. Bit my tongue there at the end." He snorted wryly. "Lost a tooth to Peter Pettigrew, too, to my own eternal shame."

"Here, then." Dumbledore pulled a fuzzy, purple and green polka-dotted cloth out of the air and pressed it into the younger man's hand. He paused a moment, registering the small tremors in the potions master's slender fingers, then sat back to regard him steadily. "Clean up a bit and tell me how it went."

Snape dutifully applied the warm, damp cloth to the blood that had dried unnoticed on his chin. "Better than we might have expected considering that Potter's story checks out on all points."

"I doubted neither Harry's story nor Tom Riddle's tenacity," Dumbledore noted kindly, fixing Snape with a rather pointed stare. "Like some others I could name, both are quite exceptional at surviving against impossible odds. And a bit more driven than I might wish."

Snape ignored the implied suggestion. "Driven does not imply careless. Since his gaffe in that graveyard, the Dark Lord seems to be exercising appropriate caution. Allowing the boy to escape undermined him on several fronts; he'll be recovering territory now, gathering the remnants of the Inner Circle and looking for new allies. Unfortunately, I cannot say with any certainty where we were, but Pettigrew seems to be staying at the Malfoy Estate." The corner of his lips quirked. "I'm sure Lucius and Narcissa are both in raptures."

"And how were you received?"

Snape grimaced. "The Dark Lord was less surprised by my re-appearance than I would have liked."

Dumbledore encouraged him with attentive silence, but Snape shrugged away the details. "We should be under no illusion that he trusts me. I am useful, however – more so alive than dead at this point. It will have to be enough."

"That isn't a line I particularly want you to walk, Severus."

"What you want hardly matters now, Albus," Snape snapped, tensing as small spasms chased from one part of his aching body to another, pinpricks and phantom fires following each other in waves. He could see errant strands of greasy hair in front of his eyes trembling and loathed the display of weakness in front of the one man he genuinely respected. Fixing Dumbledore with a neutral expression, he let silence fall between them while he repressed the shaking, concentrating instead on the little details of Dumbledore's nighttime dress. The headmaster sat patiently in the other armchair before the fireplace, his thick white beard and hair spilling haphazardly over his quilted maroon sleeping robes and escaping the purple ribbons that valiantly tried to tame the flood. His nightcap, gilt-edged and adorned with a fluffy ball at the tip, made him look something like an elderly court jester. His bony old feet were stuffed into shabby rabbit-shaped bedroom slippers.

If he had hurt less, Snape might have chuckled. Some of the more clever students believed that the headmaster's barmy old coot act was merely a performance to mask his impressive and intimidating power. Dumbledore was certainly powerful; his easy, everyday displays of wandless magic assured even the dimmest onlookers of that. But Snape knew that frequently-donned masks often melded with the reality beneath, becoming both wholly genuine and perfectly innate. Dumbledore, he suspected, was fully as barmy as he appeared much of the time and, simultaneously, remained the most formidable and cunning wizard in the world. _He should have been a Slytherin_, Snape thought, _except for the bunny slippers and that fetish for muggle sweets_.

The curse aftershocks finally settled at the base of his skull in a pounding headache and Snape closed his eyes briefly. A faint rush of air ruffled his hair, tinged with a wafting scent of cinnamon-and-ash that tickled the nose. Sun-warm softness pressed against his arm, and as the spicy-sweet smell flowed around him, some of the pain seemed to seep away. He opened his eyes to take in the brilliant scarlet and gold plumage of Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, nestled unconcernedly in the crook of his chair's arm, leaning ever so slightly against him. He reached two fingers out to stroke the bird's dramatic crest gratefully, and received an amiable blink from the large, liquid eyes before Fawkes tucked his head beneath one wing and slept.

"Cruciatus." It was less question than statement. "More than once, I take it?" In some ways, Dumbledore's soft voice stung more than the Cruciatus itself, rending Snape's battered conscience with what he believed was undeserved solicitude. He felt himself pale but refused to analyze the reaction.

"Nothing I cannot handle," he muttered. "The least of our worries, I think."

Dumbledore's smile held a hint sadness, but he did not press. "You know, I think Fawkes has a most excellent idea. You seem exhausted and I could no doubt use my beauty sleep, as well. We can talk further at a more civilized hour. Would you care to take lunch with me –" He glanced at one of the whirring instruments on his desk. " – later today? That is, if you've nothing pressing to stir or slice in your lab? The Prewett children stopped by already in preparation for their summer studies and I promised to take a look at their latest research project in the morning, but I should be free by noon."

Snape smirked at Dumbledore's off-handed mention of his own plans for summer research. If he had nothing else to report, the remark gave him a way to escape, a handy excuse that he knew he could not accept. "I imagine the piles of botched exams covering my desk will still be there if I take an hour away from them," he acquiesced, pushing himself from the armchair without upsetting the precariously perched phoenix and steeling himself against the soreness of his muscles. This, too, seemed milder within Fawkes' warm aura. He made his way slowly to the door, pleased that he only limped a little.

"And if you don't mind too terribly much," Dumbledore added with a bit of his usual sparkle, "I'll have Poppy drop by during lunch, as well. You've done quite enough repairing of your own teeth over the years. The healing arts never were your strong suit, Severus."

Snape sighed and nodded, running his tongue over his uneven teeth. _Can't deny that he's right on that count_, he thought with tired amusement before pulling the door closed behind him. Slowly, he made his way down to the cool privacy of the dungeons and into a bed that promised little sleep.


	2. Ch 1: Hogwarts Summer

_Author's note: See Prologue for disclaimers and acknowledgements. This sort of more light-hearted, humorous writing doesn't come naturally for me, so please read-and-review so I can improve as I go._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**HOGWARTS SUMMER**

As she walked up the winding road from Hogsmeade Station, Hermione Granger was struck by the uncanny stillness of Hogwarts in the summer. Everything seemed subdued in the quiet June heat, strange without the scattered groups of students in their black robes hurrying to class, without the shouts of greeting and laughter and the comic moans of after-exam despair. She paused beside the lake, watched the giant squid lazily explore the cattails nearby and savored the peacefulness, imagining an entire summer devoted to study, a library almost to herself, uninterrupted time to soak in the arcane knowledge she loved. Without the bother of formal classes, loads of homework, or Harry and Ron to drag her away from her books for some hare-brained jaunt, she might even accomplish a term's worth of research in a couple of months.

Her thoughts settled on her absent friends, envisioning them racing over from the Quidditch pitch, carrying their brooms over their shoulders and waving at her in excitement. Or standing, solemn and shaken, on the train platform just a few weeks past, the shadows of Cedric's death and Voldemort's return hanging almost palpably between them. She sighed, shaking away the twinges of loneliness and fear that inevitably stemmed from such thoughts, and continued toward the castle.

Its massive walls soared upward into towers and turrets, each dotted with stone gargoyles that shifted and stretched occasionally. Just ahead, huge iron-bound doors stood open in invitation. Even after four years as a student within those fantastical walls, Hermione still felt somewhat awestruck. Her muggle childhood had prepared her to build castles in her imagination only and she thrilled to the sight of fantasy made real, solid evidence of her place in the magical world.

Wrapped in her memories, she climbed the familiar worn steps only to be wrenched from her thoughts as a dull crash reverberated within the castle. Thin screams, the sound of shattering glass, and vociferous cursing issued from the beyond the arched doorway. A man's raised voice echoed in the emptiness of the entrance hall. "I'm getting tired of this, you miserable –"

Another crash. A dog barked wildly, the sound rebounding off stone and redoubling in volume. Small gasps, murmurs, and noises of outrage underscored the shouts and barks.

"—little toerag —"

"What was it you taught here, Remus?" said a low, growling voice, heavy with irony.

"You know bloody well what I taught. Same thing you would have if you hadn't let that boy stuff you in his trunk last year. Now are you helping or not?"

Hermione smiled as she recognized the voice of one of her favorite teachers, even though it was more agitated than it had generally been during Remus Lupin's Defense against the Dark Arts classes. She hurried up the steps and paused, unnoticed against the doorframe, to survey the scene with surprised amusement. So much for the quiet peace of Hogwarts in the summer.

"Damn it, Peeves!" shouted Lupin, standing in the middle of the entrance hall in his shabby, faded robes and shaking one fist at the ceiling. His short wolf-brown hair fell into his eyes. His face, covered with a thin sheen of sweat, was creased in annoyance. "Get down here!"

Hermione followed his harried gaze toward a rotund little man who floated out of reach, screeching and singing manically off key. "Down!" he mocked. "Down! Down! Doobie doobie down!" Peeves the poltergeist tumbled over and over in the air a few times before cannonballing downward in a rush of outlandish colors and the incongruous tinkle of bells.

A great black dog erupted over the banister of a nearby staircase and flung itself into the air, snapping its teeth as the poltergeist shot past with a squeal. The dog missed, plunged to the floor with a grunt and slid across the polished stones, paws scrabbling for purchase and tongue lolling in what appeared to be amusement. It chased the careening poltergeist around the foyer, barking madly.

"Want Peeves down? Am down!" Peeves shrieked, darting around the huge black head before shooting out of reach. "Am up! Am down! Am up!" He chanted and swooped, pausing only long enough to kick portraits off the high walls with glee. The painted occupants screamed and shouted frantic obscenities at the poltergeist as they fled to the relative safety other nearby pictures. Peeves cackled evilly and unhooked a painting of cherubic figures picnicking on golden clouds. It plummeted to the floor with an angry cry, frame splitting apart on impact.

"Damn," Lupin repeated with feeling.

"Don't curse _at_ him, Remus. Curse him! Where's your wand, man?" A fearsome-looking older man stumped from across the hall where he had been levitating several falling portraits to safe landings on the floor. Mad-Eye Moody's weathered face, with its missing chunk of nose, grimly set mouth and mismatched eyes, promised violence in keeping with his distinguished career as an Auror. Even in the summer heat, his dark traveling cloak hung over his robes and beneath it, a carved wooden leg clunked with every other step, the sound almost lost in the clamor of swearing portraits, hooting poltergeist, shouting werewolf, and barking dog. He leveled his own wand at the thieving spirit above them. "I always wondered if the Unforgivables worked on these critters."

"We can't risk him dropping the potion, Alastor," Lupin responded through gritted teeth. "It's rather late to be asking for more." In response, Peeves made a sound like a foghorn and waved a dark blue bottle in his hand meaningfully at the men. With a whoop, he tossed it high into the air and applauded crazily as it fell. Lupin swore again, rushing forward in hopes of catching the potion, but the poltergeist dove at the last second and snatched it out of the air.

"Naughty, naughty werewolf! Trying to steal Peevsies' pretty bottle," he chattered, grinning maliciously and treating Lupin to a series of rude gestures before skyrocketing upward again to sit on the enchanted chandelier. He dangled his outlandish, curly-tipped shoes over the edge and alternately jeered at them and sang vulgar limericks at the top of his ghostly lungs. The bear-like dog sat down beside Lupin and howled along, tail sweeping the floor energetically.

"Padfoot, do you really think that's helping?" Lupin sighed wearily, dropping one hand to give the animal a brief pat.

Beneath his hand, the dog sat back on his hindquarters and seemed to stretch, transfiguring itself into a tall, lean man with hair as dense and dark as the dog's fur. He shook himself vehemently. "Well," began Sirius Black with a sparkle in his eyes and a grin that was almost as gleeful as the poltergeist's, "I believe I can officially pronounce our geist-trapping methods thoroughly ineffective." He rubbed his stubbled chin and furrowed his brows melodramatically. "We need a new plan, lads. We're not catching him this way."

Hermione pressed one hand over her mouth to stifle the delighted laughter that threatened to bubble up inside her as the three grown wizards were soundly outclassed by the resident poltergeist. Peeves strafed over Moody's head, blowing a noisy raspberry and swinging the precious bottle within inches of his skull. Moody, who had paused to fiddle with his magical eye, ignored him.

In a puff of pink smoke that smelled decidedly like shepherd's pie, a house elf appeared among the trio, clutching its hands together nervously and shivering in the misshapen dishrag it wore belted at its waist with a shoelace. "Lunch is being served in the Great Hall, sirs," it squeaked. "Bixxy is asked by the Headmaster to let you know." It nodded once, bat-like ears flapping, and then vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Ah, lunch," Moody rumbled. "About time, too."

Obviously put out that Moody had ignored him, the poltergeist plummeted toward the ex-Auror once again, bellowing and brandishing the stoppered potion above his head like a club. One gnarled hand shot up and back so quickly that Hermione actually missed the motion until Peeves squawked indignantly. Moody bit out an incomprehensible string of Latinate spellwords and Peeves, finding himself unable to discorporate, began shrieking and struggling in Moody's iron grip.

"Bugger," Sirius breathed, mouth gaping open in shock. "Merlin's beard, Mad-Eye, I thought Pomfrey said you weren't up to snuff yet."

"Good woman, Poppy," Moody replied gruffly, holding the noisy poltergeist further away and frowning. "But she don't know much about constant vigilance!"

Lupin blinked and wiped his perspiring face on one frayed sleeve. "You were just playing with him? With that potion? Severus would go insane if he knew that."

"Reasons to do it, eh?" Moody's grizzled eyebrows lifted, distorting his heavily scarred face even further. His oversized magical eye rolled crazily in its socket as his normal eye tracked from one startled face to the other. "What? I could let him go, if you'd rather."

"Death and damnation," Lupin muttered, looking relieved, amused, and vaguely disturbed all at the same time as he pried the bottle from the poltergeist's pudgy fingers. Peeves howled louder and rocked rapidly back and forth against Moody's hand.

Unable to stay quiet any longer, Hermione giggled and applauded.

Lupin looked around sharply, his tired face breaking into a broad but sheepish grin when he saw her. "Hermione! I didn't see you standing there." He pocketed the blue bottle and came over to shake hands. "Glad to see another familiar face this summer. And, ah, sorry about the language. Minerva wouldn't be too happy with us, I expect. I don't usually…" He trailed off with an apologetic shrug

Hermione returned his smile, gesturing to the battlefield of swearing portraits that lay scattered and broken around them. "I'm sure I've heard worse," she offered brightly. "And, if that's your Wolfsbane Potion, I can imagine you'd be a bit desperate. Peeves is horrible."

Lupin gave a quiet laugh. "Sharp, as always." His eyes carried genuine warmth in their glittering amber-gold depths and Hermione flushed a little at his casual praise.

"It's good to see you again, Professor." She noticed that his hair seemed greyer now, and his face had deeper lines engraved around the eyes and across the forehead, giving him an older, more worn expression. As the rush of the chase left him, Lupin seemed shakier and slightly ill despite his pleasantness. His eyes had been an ordinary shade of brown the last time she saw him, as well. _Full moon soon_, she remembered but said nothing, unwilling to draw attention to a subject she knew would be uncomfortable for him.

Behind Lupin, Peeves hiccupped random rude words and tried to bite Moody's thumb, only to be shaken soundly for the trouble. His round little face bopped back and forth in an impossible whiplash effect and he gurgled unpleasantly.

"I'm hardly your professor anymore," Lupin noted, glancing back at Moody and Peeves without much sympathy. "You're welcome to just call me Remus. Most folks do."

"We call him that and a few other things less appropriate for the ears of the young or the beautiful." Sirius strode over, grinning at her through his long, unkempt black hair. "How've you been, Hermione?" Unlike Lupin, he looked far better than he had even a couple of weeks prior, heavier, better-nourished. His voice remained rough but had a cheerful undertone and his deep eyes were less unsettled. The amorphous marks of Azkaban prison had faded substantially over the last year, and his return to Hogwarts seemed to have improved his disposition. "Have you seen Harry since you left?" he asked almost immediately, as expected. "I've been running around so much for Dumbledore that I haven't been much of a correspondent, if you know what I mean. I only sent him a note this morning. Is he doing all right with those muggle relatives of his?"

"Hi, Sirius. Good to see you, too." She accepted his quick hug, knowing that in some small way she was a substitute for the man's absent godson. "I had an owl from Harry a few days ago. He's bored and worried about – well, you know –" She trailed off, feeling suddenly cold as she remembered the last few weeks, the vacant pages of the _Daily Prophet,_ the uncertainty, the insistent replaying of Harry's story in her dreams. Nightmares.

"Paws off the female students, Mr. Black," came a stern voice from the staircase behind them. Minerva McGonagall swept across the entrance hall, glaring at them from behind her square-framed glasses. "And for heaven's sake, Alastor, can't you do something about that creature?"

While they chatted, Peeves had settled into a pattern of banshee wails with the well-timed irritation of a prank fire alarm. The ex-Auror nodded to himself, fixed the poltergeist with his good eye, and pointed his wand at him. "_Silencio Spectis_." Peeves' mouth stayed wide open for a few seconds. When sound refused to come, however, his pale face turned a furious scarlet and he kicked madly, babbling and mouthing without the slightest noise.

"Pity we can't banish you," Moody growled. 'But Dumbledore won't have it, I'd wager."

Peeves stuck his tongue out smugly and pried at the hand locked onto his collar.

"But I think you might learn to enjoy being seen and not heard from now on, eh Peeves?" the grizzled elder wizard continued, his electric blue eye revolving slowly, a sinister half-smile on his face. "Of course, I could disembody you, too. You wouldn't exist. Except, you would. Got me?" He chuckled, a dry mirthless sound. "Voiceless, formless. Worse than a ghost. And not likely to fly off with things that don't belong to you."

Peeves stopped wriggling and dangled sullenly in the scarred hand.

After one last, long stare, Moody opened his fingers and the poltergeist shot upward and vanished through the ceiling with a small pop. "Never did learn how long that spell would hold. But either way, he's not likely to go screaming around the castle for a bit." He slid his wand into his sleeve, then placed two blunt fingertips against his magical eye and pushed it back and forth a few times. It made odd squelching noises.

Hermione stared and McGonagall cleared her throat. "Do you mind, Alastor? Some of us still have appetites."

Moody shrugged. "It itches," he groused, matter-of-factly. "After not wearing it for ten months, it's been a bit of a bother to get used to again."

On that note, McGonagall turned her back on the men and motioned for Hermione to join her. "I'm so glad you accepted Albus' invitation." Her austere face broke into a fond smile and she rested one hand on the girl's shoulder, peering down at her as she spoke. "It's been some years since there was a Gryffindor studying Alchemy during the summer term. I'm so very proud."

Hermione felt the color creeping back into her cheeks. "Well, I'm certainly interested, but I haven't really even begun yet, Professor. None of our other classes even mention Alchemy except in passing," she explained quickly. "And unless you count the manuscript reprints I was able to read at the local muggle university last week, I hardly even know what I've volunteered for. They were quite interesting, of course, but I'm not sure they have anything much to do with wizarding Alchemy – except in name."

The Deputy Headmistress beamed. "I told Albus he'd have to work to keep up with you this summer." Despite her habitually proper demeanor, she sounded delighted and her light Scottish brogue was more evident than usual. "Now, the other students aren't expected for another few hours, so you'll have time to get settled in. Your things should be sent up from the station shortly and I'll show you your rooms after lunch. We couldn't put you up in Gryffindor Tower, I'm afraid, thanks to the progressive reinforcing of the wards on the castle. These gentlemen are supposedly helping us with that task." She waved one hand at the three wizards who were magically repairing and restoring portraits to the walls nearby. Sirius snorted.

"Besides," McGonagall continued astutely, "as the only Gryffindor student on campus, I thought it might seem a bit empty without classmates for company." She beckoned the others and turned to lead the way into the Great Hall. "You've arrived just in time for lunch. Albus absolutely insists on the staff dining together whenever possible. Collegial bonds and all that. You and the other three students, of course, will be expected to join us for most meals." She hesitated in the doorway to the Great Hall and then turned back abruptly. "Mr. Lupin – Remus, please –"

Hermione turned. Lupin was across the foyer, standing on the top step leading down into the dungeon level of the castle. He glanced furtively up at them and gave a slight smile. "It's fine, Minerva. I wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable."

Patting Hermione on the arm briefly, the Transfiguration teacher crossed the empty space in a sweep of emerald robes, shooting a passing glare at both Moody and Sirius. Moody rolled his eyes (the magical one spinning 360 degrees), but Sirius had the sense to look slightly chastened. "Nonsense, Remus. Everyone trusts you implicitly, even today. And Albus would be upset if you weren't at table. You know how he gets."

"But, the house elves can easily –"

She refused to hear his protests, tucking her hand neatly beneath his arm and forcing him to escort her back toward the Great Hall. With a prim nod of her head she sent the others ahead and followed behind in quiet, determined conversation with the werewolf.

"So," Sirius said as they entered the Great Hall, "you're running with the big dogs this summer, I hear? Part of Dumbledore's little Alchemy workgroup? Quite an achievement, you know. He only takes the best out of each year, and sometimes he doesn't choose anyone at all for several years running."

Hermione walked beside him, taking a moment to glance up at the cloudless summer sky displayed by the enchanted ceiling. Beams of sunlight slanted down through the rafters, dazzling and warm. A lone post-owl slept snugly on a cornice. "How long has Professor Dumbledore been offering summer courses? I hadn't heard anything about them until I got his owl." Truthfully, it had startled her that Hogwarts offered educational opportunities that she had not known about. _Hogwarts, A History_ never mentioned anything about extra courses of study, even in the most up-to-date version. She wondered with some concern what else she was missing.

Sirius chuckled. "He keeps it under his pointy hat, somehow. I don't know why he doesn't advertise or how long he's done it." He caught her doubtful look. "That's the truth. I guess it's not something many of us think about, really. Alchemy is a dead wizarding discipline these days, though I think it was once quite respectable." He shrugged.

As was customary during the winter breaks when only a few students remained at school, the house tables had been cleared from the Hall and replaced with a single, more intimate dining table. Several of the faculty had already taken their seats and were immersed in conversation. Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, argued affably with the school librarian, Madam Pince. Professor Flitwick perched on a pile of books, his little white-haired head nodding emphatically at Poppy Pomfrey, the school's mediwitch. Professor Trelawney was in the process of reaching across the table for Flitwick's teacup. She pointed to something in the bottom and he nodded blithely, without looking at her or the cup. Taking up most of one end of the table, the groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures professor, Rubeus Hagrid, listened with interest to the talk around him. Sirius gestured for Hermione to join him next to Hagrid, and she slid into one of the empty seats with a polite smile of greeting. The half-giant broke into a huge grin and reached over to pat her affectionately on the shoulder with one enormous hand.

"Heard yeh was comin' back," he said gruffly, eyes bright beneath his tangled eyebrows. "Glad I get ter see yeh before I 'afta go off fer a bit."

"You're leaving, Hagrid?" Hermione felt distinctly disappointed that he might not be available for company and tea over the coming months. Hogwarts was never the same without him.

"Jus' fer a bit. I'll be back ever' so often, I think. An' I should be done before nex' term."

"That sounds like a lot of traveling. Where are you going?"

"Can't tell yeh that, now can I?" he responded, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. "Dumbledore's business, that is." Plates of small snacks materialized on the table in front of them and he fell to munching cheerfully without further comment.

Sensing that the subject of Hagrid's journey was closed for the moment, Hermione resolved to ask again later, sans audience, and turned back to the animagus. "Speaking of Dumbledore's business, did he teach Alchemy in the summers when you were a student, Sirius?"

"Actually, yes. Although I didn't know about it until later."

"So." Her fingers stayed to her bushy brown hair, twisting a few strands as she considered. "That means he didn't select you, or Harry's dad, or Mr. Lu– erm, Remus."

"Nah." Sirius snorted. "We were good enough students grade-wise, but only Moony really cared much about book-learning. And, well, James and I weren't exactly ones to encourage him in that."

"So true," smiled Lupin. He settled at the table with McGonagall on his other side and reached hungrily for a small meat pasty.

"Who then?" Hermione asked. "Do either of you know?"

Sirius' cheerfulness subsided a fraction, a hint of a scowl appearing between his eyes. "Old Snivellus, believe it or not. Guess it's not surprising, though. Alchemy and Potions are related, I think, and the git was always bloody good at Potions."

"Sniv – You mean Professor Snape?" Hermione's voice betrayed her surprise. From Harry's stories, she knew Sirius and Snape had loathed each other during school, but it was difficult to imagine the older man to her right still holding grade school grudges. Then again, she thought with a small internal sigh, Snape certainly held grudges. Look at the way he antagonized Harry. And Neville. And her, if she was completely honest.

"Yeah. Sodding bastard never told anyone, of course. But James found out he had scheduled a special NEWT in the subject, which seemed odd at the time, even for over-achieving Snivelly."

"Language, Mr. Black," McGonagall chided. She frowned at the light fare before them then looked around with a small show of impatience. "Has anyone seen Albus?"

As if on cue, Dumbledore wandered into the Hall. His golden robes sparkled in the sunlight, faceted with detailed embroidery, looking lush and all too warm for the summer heat. Strolling beside Professor Sprout, he bent his head toward her almost conspiratorially, giving the stout brown-robed woman his undivided attention. Each of them carried urns overflowing with a large flowering plant and the Herbology professor seemed particularly excited about the one in her hands. As she spoke, her frizzled grey head bobbed animatedly, her voice carrying to the table. "…very rare to find male Nettles with such vivid color," she was saying. "Almost impossible to cultivate in captivity." She lovingly placed her plant on the table between Hermione and Hagrid and stood back to gaze at it with distinct fondness. Three wide bugle-shaped flowers swayed gently for a moment, their reddish-purple petals delicately veined with blue. Elegant fronds curled out of the dark foliage in twists like confetti, falling over the sides of the urn or stretched upward toward the ceiling.

"It's lovely," Hermione said earnestly. "What is it, Professor?"

Sprout startled a bit, and then looked delighted. "Why, Miss Granger, is it Monday already? I get so immersed in the greenhouse, I do lose track of time when we aren't on term schedules!" She plumped into a seat beside McGonagall where she could look at the striking plant with pride. "This is one of my prize specimens, a remarkably hardy sample of _Campanual vexium_. It will be quite the toast of the Herbologists Council Meeting this August, I expect."

"Oh, I've read about those." Hermione studied the plant carefully, noting the nettle-like leaf clusters visible amid the fronds and jagged leaves. "But I thought they made awful indoor plants. Something about being too nearly sentient."

Before Sprout could respond, Moody's voice rumbled from the far end of the table. "That'll be Nettling Bellflower, will it?" Professor Trelawney had moved next to him with an airy smile and he paused to push his chair a few inches away from her. "Never could abide the notion of a sneaky plant," he grumbled.

Sprout huffed and stared down at the ex-Auror. "Only the females, Alastor. Males such as these are quite harmless, I assure you."

With a short bark of laughter, Sirius elbowed Hermione. "Just like with wizards, eh?" She rolled her eyes and noticed that McGonagall did the same.

"Plants shouldn't have genders, either," Moody added, glowering suspiciously at the second plant which Dumbledore had sat on his end of the table to balance the decoration. "And stop messing with my teacup, woman!" he groused at the Divination professor who blinked at him owlishly. "Told you before I'll not be using it." He suited action to words, drawing a silver flask from beneath his cloak and taking a swig. Hermione was sure Trelawny's sudden sharpening of expression had less to do with Moody's reprimand and more to do with figuring a way to read any dregs might be in the bottom of that flask.

The Headmaster settled into a chair in the middle of his colleagues and looked around with satisfaction. "I see the house elves have provided snacks while waiting on Pomona and myself." His eyes roved over the table, taking in each person in quick turns and meeting Hermione's look with a charming twinkle. Not for the first time, she realized how impossible it was not to smile at Albus Dumbledore. "I hope everyone will take time to welcome Miss Granger back among us, as well. It's delightful to have students around during the summer months and I'm sure everyone will help make her studies productive and her stay enjoyable. Now, I imagine you are all quite hungry. I apologize for keeping you waiting this long." He clapped his hands together once. The appetizers vanished immediately, replaced with golden platters piled high with sandwiches, tureens sloshing with soup, individual tins of shepherd's pie, and a variety of summer vegetables in gilded bowls.

Hermione found it both invigorating and peculiar to take lunch surrounded by the adults who usually sat above them in the Hall. Even during winter break meals, when students and staff frequently shared a table, conversation was usually quiet and light, the teachers behaving no differently than they did within the walls of their classrooms. While she was aware that professors did have other personas, glimpses of these were rare and sometimes uncomfortable.

Today, however, the faculty spoke and acted almost as if she were not there, which she found rather flattering, and she followed the discussions with interest. They sniped and teased one another mercilessly, shared tidbits of their private affairs, and wrestled with serious matters such as the castle defenses and Ministry politics. Pomfrey was apparently seeing someone in Hogsmeade, to the apparent approval of the other witches present, who encouraged her to provide details. Hooch had crashed one of the brooms she was test-flying for the Nimbus Corporation, turning a prototype into a spectacular shower of splinters. Lupin made somewhat hoarse excuses to beg off the usual Friday night drinking binge at the Three Broomsticks and Professor Sprout reached across McGonagall to press his hand sympathetically. McGonagall passed around a pair of postcards from the missing Astronomy and Arithmancy professors. When Dumbledore stretched over the empty seat between them and handed the postcards to Hermione, she hesitated for a moment. Should she read them? He smiled brilliantly and turned back to his meal, so she chanced a quick glance – pictures of sand and surf with hastily scribbled notes about having a good holiday. She smiled to imagine the dark and dramatic Sinistra sunbathing on a Hawaiian beach and quickly handed the cards on.

While listening was fascinating, she found the regular attempts to draw her into the conversations to be slightly disconcerting at first. But they genuinely seemed interested in her opinion and listened attentively while she gave it, or questioned her about her own holiday, her family, her friends and plans.

"I trust your parents weren't too disappointed not to have you home this summer?" McGonagall asked.

"Oh no," Hermione assured her. "They were overachievers when they were in school. Still are, really, if you count all of their conference presentations and workshops. So, I guess they understand."

Very soon, she found herself talking more freely than she would have imagined, describing her parents' busy schedule and her brief, awkward visits with the next-door neighbor's children, two girls of almost her own age. Since her letter arrived from Hogwarts, she no longer had much in common with these childhood friends and they had long-since drifted apart. Between her frequently absent but loving parents and her entirely absent friends, Hermione was happy to be back among familiar faces.

Then, there was Mad-Eye Moody, a familiar face and a few stories but nothing else. Despite the sense that she knew him from class last year, she had only seen the real Moody once, during the Leaving Feast. Curious, she peered past Sprout's plants occasionally to watch him. He eyed each bowl of food with his one dark eye, examining everything carefully before partaking while his magical eye kept a constant, whirling watch in all other directions. He spooned a small portion of peas onto a plate, and then selected a sandwich from half-way down a large stack, unbalancing several others and letting them fall to the tabletop. He sniffed it with his mangled nose before taking an experimental bite.

Madam Hooch interrupted Hermione's study, calling down the table, "How do you like being back at school over the summer? Not much of a vacation, was it?" The retired Quidditch star had barely said three words to her outside of flying lessons, an experience which Hermione still recalled with dread. Flying wasn't something you could master by reading numerous books.

"I just arrived, really. But I expect to like it very much. Although – well, it isn't as quiet as I expected it would be."

Lupin grinned. "I'm afraid we're to blame for that. Peeves again."

Hooch leaned back in her chair and laughed. "Could be worse, you know. Remember last summer?" She cut her hawkish eyes over at Hagrid, who was already turning red beneath his whiskers. "What was that thing, anyway?"

"S'not a thing," the groundskeeper said, a little defensively. "Griftin' greylocks are mighty sensitive critters. And very challengin' ter raise."

"What he means is 'they eat everything that doesn't run away,'" she translated for Hermione with a wink. "It was supposed to help keep the grounds mown, I think."

McGonagall looked amused, as well. "And it did. I remember looking out the staff window one morning and seeing that little grey fluffball haring across the Quidditch pitch carrying one of those enormous trees from the side gardens. Thought I was seeing things at first."

Hooch snorted loudly. "Eating its way into the broom stables was the last straw, though." She paused a beat. "Last _straw_. Brooms. Heh. Sorry about that."

The required chorus of groans passed around the table. Hermione winced. "It got into the broom stable?"

"Well, you probably noticed the new Cleansweeps for the chasers last year?" Hooch seemed to savor the story even more after her accidental pun, so Hermione chose not to mention that she hadn't noticed the brooms. She recognized Harry's Firebolt and knew the Slytherins rode Nimbus models, but that was the extent of her interest in brooms. Hooch continued. "It chewed right through the stable door and proceeded to make a fine lunch out of about a third of the schools' better brooms." She shook her head. "Right mess it was."

Hagrid looked slightly aggrieved. "Well, 'e couldn't help it! Th' man what raised 'im fergot to train 'im off brooms and trees and things. They'll eat anything, yer know, without proper care bein' took. I found 'im a good home up north after that though."

The flying instructor chortled. "And I suppose you've got some new beastie out there in your hut, ready for next year's classes?"

Hagrid's face lit up. "Now tha' yeh mention it, I do 'ave somethin' very special this time. Jus' got 'er last week." And then his face fell a little. "Not tha' I'm gonna get all summer wif 'er. She'll miss me while I'm gone."

Sirius looked up with interest. "What is it? Another hippogriff?"

"No, no. Nothin' quite like tha'. But if'n yeh don' mind, I think I wanna keep 'er fer a surprise later this summer." He looked quickly over at Hermione, as if getting an idea and Hermione slid down in her seat a fraction. Hagrid's great ideas usually involved the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night or living things that exploded unexpectedly. "Hermione, yeh might like ter come down an' see 'er. Yeh'll be impressed, I think, and maybe yeh an' the other kids might like ter help take care of 'er while I'm away."

Hermione was suddenly aware of sympathetic glances from all around the table. She bit her lip briefly but said, "Um, sure, Hagrid. We can talk about it."

A sharp growl rose from the far end of the table, punctuated by the clatter of falling silverware. "The blasted thing is stealing my peas."

"What's that, Professor Moody?" Madam Pomfrey's smile carried a touch of sedate bedside manner when she responded. It was clear she had heard him, but hoped that he perhaps had not heard himself.

"My peas," the ex-Auror repeated firmly, his magical eye rolling up at her while the other glared at the plant near his plate. "And don't try any of that mental-case mumbo-jumbo on me, woman. I know what I see. And that thing is taking my peas." He gestured to the offending flora with his spoon.

Hermione leaned closer to Sirius. "Back in the entrance," she whispered, "I thought Professor Moody seemed less – well, twitchy – than he did at the Leaving Feast."

Sirius guffawed, his mouth full of mashed potato and sausage. "Don't let him fool you. He has his moments, yeah. I think chasing Peeves gave him something to focus on for a bit. But he's not quite right. Never was, from what I hear." He chewed thoughtfully. "'Course, after spending a year knocked out in a magical trunk, you can hardly blame him if he's a tad more paranoid than usual."

Apparently thinking along the same lines, most of those present went back to their conversations and ignored the outburst. After a minute of scowling, even Moody returned to his meal, though one of his eyes continued to watch the plant narrowly.

The lunch chat waxed and waned and a few of the staff made their excuses and left. Trelawney gave Moody a long, indecipherable stare before wafting off toward her tower. Madam Pince mentioned a new shipment of magical tomes and hastened to make sure they arrived safely. When Lupin mentioned the re-warding of Hogwarts, most of the remaining group fell enthusiastically to brainstorming new and better concepts for protecting the castle and grounds. The annual task had apparently been intensified by the events of a few weeks ago. Hermione listened avidly, amazed as tiny Professor Flitwick described a series of complex and brutal charms he was developing to undergird some more common barriers proposed by others around the table.

Every so often, Hermione noticed Dumbledore glancing in her direction, a shadow passing over his normally bright expression. Although he participated in the warding conversation almost eagerly and always had a ready chuckle for the everyday antics and stories, Hermione noted that he ate very little, pushing his shepherd's pie around on his plate idly. Something about the set of his shaggy white brows occasionally struck her as pensive, as if he were worried but unwilling to share the burden with the rest of the staff. At first she thought his worry might be directed at her and she looked to make sure she hadn't slopped pumpkin juice down her shirt. Perhaps he disapproved of the freedom with which the adults spoke in her presence after all? Surreptitiously, she tried to catch his eye just to be certain. She – like Lupin – didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable.

His next sidelong glance, however, assured her that she was not the focus of his concern. Rather than resting on her, his gaze fell short to the empty chair between them, lingered briefly, then returned to his plate.

"Sirius?" she asked, pushing her plate back in satisfaction as light desserts appeared. "Who usually sits here?"

"Snivellus," came the harsh reply. Even around a bite of biscuit, the condescending nickname seemed unexpectedly hostile.

Dumbledore looked sharply at the animagus, his mouth pressed into a disapproving line. _How odd_, Hermione thought. The Potions master's absence had seemed insignificant, since she imagined that he avoided lunchtime camaraderie whenever possible. _And why would anyone miss him? Ill temper, mocking expressions, and not-so-subtle threats? I'll pass, thanks_.

But Hagrid looked back and forth between the two men with concern. "Aw, Sirius," he began softly. "Yeh ought ter let tha' old business go, yeh know? Professor Snape's a good man. 'E works hard fer the – er –" He gave a small smile to Hermione and nervously fingered his napkin. "Fer Dumbledore. Great man, Dumbledore," he finished lamely.

At the other end of the table, Moody slammed his fist into his silverware, scattering it and upsetting his empty teacup. "That's it!" he shouted and shoved himself up, badly-shorn mane of grizzled grey hair flying, eye rolling madly. "I've had enough, you pea-thieving –" He seized the _Campanula vexium_ with one hand, as if prepared to rip it from its carefully tended soil.

"No!" Professor Sprout leaped to her feet. "Alastor, don't you dare!" Her chair overturned with a clatter as she hurried around the table to rescue her prized plant.

The Nettle's curling fronds suddenly arched and whipped around to grasp Moody's wrist and fingers. One of the massive blooms lifted as if staring up at the angry ex-Auror, swelled ominously, and promptly spat a pea at him. It bounced off his face and rolled across the table.

"Oh, dear," Sprout sighed, reaching out to untangle the foliage around Moody's hand before he could fling the plant against a wall. He jumped at the touch, but she managed to keep her grip, nimble fingers gently prying at the prehensile leaves and stems. "Albus, you must've picked up one of the females."

Dumbledore smiled innocently. "Oh, did I?"

"I'm so sorry, Alastor." Sprout said to the twitching ex-Auror. The Nettle made a small choking sound and shot a second pea straight up into the air.

Moody stood stiffly, his magical eye fixing Dumbledore in a sinister glare. "Not funny, Albus. Not at all. I think your worry for your pet Death Eater is impairing your judgment on other fronts."

Silence fell sharply around the table. Several of the staff stared at Moody with shocked expressions. Others, including Sirius, discovered a new and profound interest in their plates. Hermione found that she did not know where to look, so she bit her lip and rubbed at a blemish on the table.

Dumbledore rose from his chair slowly, his robes whispering in the sudden quiet. "Alastor, we have already had this discussion. Thrice, as I recall. I am aware of your opinions, and I thank you for your concern. But the matter remains closed."

Moody scowled. "Then it needs to be reopened until you see sense. It's one thing to have the man teaching here, but it's quite another to bring him into the front lines. At this precarious time, no less. No matter what he tells you, he works for himself – not for you."

"I trust him," Dumbledore said softly. "That should be enough."

"So you've said. But you're a grand old fool if you actually mean it. I have a hell of a lot of experience with these things, and I'm tellin' you – once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Justice, not mercy, will be our key to surviving this war."

"I would not willingly disagree with you, Alastor," Dumbledore replied, a quiet finality in his tone. "But there are men who deserve better than the fate decreed by the Ministry. Or the Aurory."

"There isn't a Death Eater alive that should've walked away from Azkaban, and that includes Severus Snape." Moody snatched his hand free from the plant's remaining tendrils and stumped toward Dumbledore, passing him closely on his way out of the Hall and muttering beneath his breath. "We've all got work to do," he growled over his shoulder. "We should see to it."

In the silent wake of Moody's departure, Sirius began to snuffle softly. Hermione stared at him as his shoulders began to shake with stifled laugher. "I'm sorry," he grinned, glancing apologetically up the others. "It's just – I've never seen a pea-tunia before!" He snerked. "Get it? _Pea_-tunia?"

Madam Hooch hooted with laughter and the rest of the group relaxed, pointedly ignoring the exchange that had just occurred as they pushed back from lunch and rose to go about their daily business. McGonagall alone stopped to speak with Dumbledore, resting her hand lightly on his arm. He nodded, patted her hand, and followed the others, leaving Hermione and McGonagall alone beside the empty table.

"Come, Miss Granger. Let me show you to your rooms."

They had reached the staircase that led down into the dungeons before Hermione worked up the nerve to ask. "Professor? Can you tell me what that was about?"

McGonagall glanced sideways at her. "Certainly nothing for you to worry about," she replied briskly. "You'll soon be busy enough without trying to get involved in faculty silliness."

Hermione plunged on, undeterred by the casual redirection. "So, you don't think Professor Snape's a Death Eater anymore, then?"

The Transfiguration teacher led the way down the stairs and, for a moment, Hermione thought she would simply refuse to answer. At the bottom, however, she stopped and looked down at her seriously. "No, I do not. But these are dangerous times, Miss Granger, and the less said about some things, the better. I know Severus displayed that abominable Mark in front of you and your friends, but that was probably unwise on his part. Do I make myself clear?"

"I understand," Hermione nodded, although she wasn't entirely sure than she did. "I just thought that Professor Moody seemed awfully sure of himself. It can't be easy to challenge Professor Dumbledore like that."

McGonagall sighed. "In some ways, Alastor still lives in his past. Over a decade ago, he was tasked with rounding up criminals left in the lurch after young Mr. Potter first met You-Know-Who. He has not quite recovered from the experience." She turned to continue down the dim stone corridor, changing the subject as she went. Magical sconces set in wrought-iron brackets flickered into life as they approached, casting an uncertain light across their path. "Now, I'm afraid most of the guests this summer are living in the castle's lower levels since the towers are the focus of our first round of re-warding," she explained. "This includes you, but I think you'll find the rooms comfortable enough, even if the hallways are a bit chill."

Hermione looked doubtful. Inevitably, the dungeons reminded her of Professor Snape, part of the vindictive man's territory that he was rumored to patrol extensively most evenings. He was notorious for seeking out wayfaring students with a tenacity that bordered on obsession. Not that many students chose to rendezvous in the dungeons, which were inevitably cold, dark, and haunted by Slytherins as well as their Head of House.

As they passed a series of ancient tapestries, McGonagall pointed out the living quarters of other guests. "The suite of rooms behind the hunting party tapestry is shared by Remus and Sirius. These across the hall belong to Alastor alone. If you're coming and going late at night, you might want to make some noise announcing who you are. He's perfectly safe, if a little jumpy, but you don't want to aggravate him if you can help it."

"What time is curfew?" Hermione asked.

"No specific time in the summer. But please use discretion and some wisdom. You can read just as well in your rooms as in the library. And under no circumstances are you to be gallivanting about the grounds without a faculty escort. The wards will have gaps here and there. Best you're with someone who knows where. Understood?"

They turned a corner and stopped in front of yet another faded tapestry. "Your door is here, and you'll be sharing space with a rising sixth-year student named Arida Zakari. Further along, you'll find the Prewetts– a brother and sister in the seventh year." She pointed to a coat-of-arms hanging some way further down the hall, hiding yet another door.

Hermione studied the faded tapestry in front of her, thinking how appropriate it was for the dungeons. A pair of dragons, one red, one green, twined about each other, their toothy mouths agape, their wingspans filling the wall-hanging from edge to edge. Stylized runes wound in between them and glittered around the edges of the tapestry in dirty gold thread.

"The password is 'Tootsie Pop,'" Minerva informed her with a wry twist of her face. "Albus set them earlier this week."

Hermione laughed and let them into the suite of rooms.

As the tapestry drew itself aside and the heavy oak door swung open, she gasped, eyes widening. Expecting a dank dungeon room reminiscent of their Potions classroom, she found instead a place flooded with sunlight. The far wall held three massive gothic windows, mullioned and framed in worked metal. A stained-glass inset of Celtic design highlighted the center of each window, casting brilliant colors onto a floor of lightly polished tawny-grey stone. Woven rugs in crimson and green lay underfoot, sectioning the large common room into sitting and work areas. A pair of worn leather sofas and a single damask armchair sat before the fireplace, where a small blaze crackled merrily, assisting the sunlight in banishing the natural chill of the stone-walled room.

A door to her immediate left led into a shared bathroom that was also stone, with a shower and a separate bath inset into the floor. Fluffy towels covered the racks and the air had a pleasant citrus scent. Hermione had noticed that smell lingering around the female Gryffindor prefect occasionally and had always assumed it was a personal fragrance. _Perhaps it was special Hogwarts issue_, she thought. The next door over led to her room, a vast chamber compared to her shared quarters in Gryffindor Tower. Its dark walls were draped with crimson and gold tapestries. _Lion's Den colors_, she noted with pleasure. A large canopied bed filled one wall and a mahogany desk surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled another. Her windows, also large arches with touches of stained glass, overlooked the lake and she imagined that she could see Hogsmeade in the distance, despite the fact that they were close to ground level.

She turned to McGonagall, amazed. "Are the windows real or charms?"

"Quite real. On this side of the castle, the upper dungeons are well above the ground. One of the many benefits to building into a cliff."

"The Potions classroom isn't on this side, then."

McGonagall laughed. "Nowhere near. Severus claims that sunlight harms his more precious ingredients. And, of course, he fairly demanded that guests be quartered well away from him and his work." She gestured to Hermione's trunk which had been left unopened at the foot of her bed. "I suggest you take some time to get settled. I'm sure Miss Zakari will be joining you here in the next few hours."

"I don't think I've ever met her."

"Most likely not. She's a Slytherin. But very bright, as you might guess by her repeat invitation to study with Albus. Despite the difference in your houses, I imagine the two of you will get along famously."

Hermione nodded, but she had yet to meet a Slytherin with any proclivity toward friendship with the mudblood sidekick of Harry Potter. McGonagall gave her the schedule for dinner and left her to her thoughts and her unpacking.

She turned toward the looming bookcases first, scanning the numerous empty shelves with something akin to awe. "I don't even own that many books," she said out loud. "But I'm going to be working on that." With a spark of excitement, she threw open her trunk and began heaving her precious texts out first and foremost. Everything else could wait.


End file.
